Surveillance
by SilverySparks
Summary: Without Sherlock and his ridiculous plan Lestrade would never have met Mycroft Holmes. But he has, and Mycroft has his own definition of looking out for his boyfriend... Mystrade.


It was all Sherlock's fault, Detective Inspector Lestrade decided. If Sherlock hadn't chosen to invade the US military base in Welford, Northamptonshire – alone and spontaneously, without even the idea of a plan – Mycroft would never have paid much attention to him. He had, however, and so Lestrade had found himself making vain attempts at dissuading his friend from this ridiculous idea. In a very professional and sophisticated manner, of course.

"Oh no. No no no. You are NOT going in there!"

"Of course I'm going in there."

"No, Sherlock, you can't- You won't even get past the outer wall!"

"Don't be ridiculous, George."

"Okay, so maybe you will, but then what? This place has a tighter security than Buckingham Palace, there's no way you won't get caught!"

"It doesn't matter if I get caught. It'll be worth it."

"Sherlock!"

Thankfully, John had arrived at that moment.

"John, tell him he's being stupid. He listens to you."

John had just given him a pitying glance. "Sherlock? Listen?" he'd said with a wry smile. "Forget it."

Then a shiny black Mercedes had rolled into the parking lot of Scotland Yard, and Sherlock had turned on his heels, said, "Time to leave. Come on, John," and had marched off without another glance.

Lestrade remembered considering to inform the military base of Sherlock's pending visit, just to prove him wrong, while he climbed the stairs to his office. He'd just decided that he would actually do it when he unlocked the door to his office and found that it wasn't empty.

Right in the middle of the office he'd stood, leaning on his umbrella, every inch of him suggesting that he owned the entire building as well as everything and everyone inside it. (Later, Lestrade had found out that this was, in fact, true, but it had annoyed him anyway.)

Inspector Lestrade was a brave man, and so he'd dared to ask, "Who are you, and what are you doing in my office?" despite the stranger's imposing presence. Upon reading the identification card that was shoved under his nose in reply, however, even he had felt his jaw drop.

His instincts had screamed at him to offer a sincere apology containing at least three ' _Sir'_ s and maybe a short bow, if he could manage one, but all he'd been able to say was, "Holmes? Are you-"

"His brother," Mycroft Holmes had replied curtly.

"Oh," Lestrade had said. He hadn't known Sherlock had a brother, and the fact had reminded him that Sherlock had to have parents, too – a thought that had struck him as rather odd. He'd always assumed that the consulting detective had just popped out of the ground in 221B Baker Street one day, fully grown and complete with nicotine patch and trench coat.

"You care about him," Sherlock's brother had interrupted his thoughts.

"He's my friend, of course I care about him."

"Hm," Mycroft had said, scrutinizing him with those piercing eyes of his. "Does he drive you mad sometimes?"

"Of course he drives me mad, he drives everyone mad, but I expect you know that," Lestrade had replied, wondering why on earth he was having this conversation. "I'm sorry, but why are you here?"

"Oh, you're quite right, I forgot to mention it," Mycroft had said, giving him a small smile. "I came hoping to intercept my brother before he set off on this ridiculous mission of his, but I am too late, it seems."

"You- why- how come you know of that plan?" Lestrade had spluttered.

"Oh, I know everything my little brother does," Mycroft had remarked with a wolfish grin. "Now. While we wait for Sherlock to mess things up, let's talk, shall we?" And he had drawn up one of Lestrade's visitor's chairs with his umbrella and offered him a seat in his own office.

* * *

That was how it had started. And that was why Detective Inspector Lestrade could now be found in front of his bathroom mirror, fussing over his hair. He jumped when his phone beeped.

-You look fine. Just come out already. MH

Lestrade hastily put down the tube of hair gel. Damn Mycroft. Trust him to install cameras in his bathroom. His _bathroom_!

"Stalking is a criminal offense, you know," he told Mycroft as he joined him in the private parlour of a ridiculously expensive restaurant. He hated those places, but Mycroft had point-blank refused to accompany him to McDonald's.

"Wrong. It's my job," Mycroft said loftily. Lestrade rolled his eyes. Sometimes it was very frustrating to be dating the British government.

"That doesn't give you the right to monitor my bathroom!" he said.

"Oh? And what's so special about your bathroom?"

"It's a _bathroom_!" Lestrade replied, a blush creeping slowly up his neck. "It's where I _shower_!"

Mycroft looked at him innocently. "I know," he said. "And it's a nice view too. You have a good singing voice."

Lestrade wished nothing more than to be teleported far, far away – maybe the far side of Pluto would do. But then, he thought wryly, Mycroft probably had cameras there, too.

"So," he asked, trying to divert Mycroft's attention from his burning face, "how many people do you have watching us now?"

"Watching _me_?" Mycroft repeated, a hint of incredulity in his voice. "None, of course. Stalking is a criminal offense, after all."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"What?" Mycroft said. "Don't you believe me? Do you really think I want anyone watching this?" He leaned forward and caressed Lestrade's cheek tenderly. The detective closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the touch. It had been years since someone had touched him like that, caringly and lovingly. Since his divorce, all the physical contact he got was with the criminals he had to escort, and they were rarely that gentle.

He opened his eyes, and saw that Mycroft was watching him with an unusually warm smile. "The two of us have been alone for far too long," Sherlock's brother breathed softly.

Lestrade leaned forward, his heart fluttering like that of a teenage boy as he kissed Mycroft gently on the mouth. The other man stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, adjusting his chair slightly so he could run his hands along the detective's arms. Their food sat forgotten on the table.


End file.
